


Of Saving Angels

by EdnaV



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I wanted to write that scene and I ended up with a multi-chapter, I'm projecting like an IMAX, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's Ineffable, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), and a wedding at the end, it's that free will thing, no I'm not over it, the lectern in Crowley's flat, there's a lot of parentheses too, there's a lot of queer ex-Catholic guilt in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-01-20 14:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21283364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdnaV/pseuds/EdnaV
Summary: It had been the lectern, of course. He should've known.After the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley have to fight to save themselves from Heaven, from Hell, and from the pain of their past.The only way to do it is together — but after six thousand years of hiding, it's not so easy...
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 77
Kudos: 162





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robynthemagpie_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/gifts).

> This started as “let's see if I can write a sex scene,” then it became “the night in Crowley's flat,” and now it's not going to stop there...
> 
> (The sex scene is going to be in chapter 4, if you're wondering.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Angels don't cry. They aren't supposed to cry. They perpetually rejoice in the Divine Grace, and the Divine Grace might be infinite, but it doesn't contain tears._
> 
> _Also, crying is a messy business. Your eyes are full of tears, you can't see well enough, and you bump into chairs. The tears run down your face and stain your clothes. Your nose gets stuffy, and just as you're declaring that your pain, oh, your pain is a burden too heavy to carry, you grab a tissue, and before you can say “woe is me,” you're trumpeting like a drunken elephant. Angels are elegant beings. Angels don't cry._
> 
> _The problem is, Aziraphale was crying._
> 
> Crowley looks after Aziraphale, as he's always done. But this time he dares to say something new...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my amazing beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) and all the lovely people who helped me on the GOBB Discord!

**_Mayfair. The night between Saturday and Sunday._**

Angels don't cry. They aren't supposed to cry. They perpetually rejoice in the Divine Grace, and the Divine Grace might be infinite, but it doesn't contain tears.

Also, crying is a messy business. Your eyes are full of tears, you can't see well enough, and you bump into chairs. The tears run down your face and stain your clothes. Your nose gets stuffy, and just as you're declaring that your pain, oh, your pain is a burden too heavy to carry, you grab a tissue, and before you can say “woe is me,” you're trumpeting like a drunken elephant. Angels are elegant beings. Angels don't cry.

The problem is, Aziraphale was crying.

Sure, he had miracled himself a handkerchief, so his clothes were relatively safe. He didn't need to breathe, so a blocked nose was not an issue. As for bumping into furniture, it's very hard to bump into anything at all if you're curled up on the floor.

The “curled up” bit was part of the problem, though.

Crowley had spent six millennia gazing at the angel against his better judgement, trying — or, at least, hoping — not to be seen. He had become an expert at stealing glances: pretending not to notice Aziraphale's blatant once-overs, sauntering around the angel to take in all of his tiny tics. And now that he could finally stare at his leisure, when being seen by Heaven or Hell wouldn't have made much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, he was looking at an angelic meltdown.

It had been the lectern, of course. He should've known.

_Not now. We're in danger._

_ Let me take care of it._

Crowley took a step towards the sobbing bundle that by now had retreated into the farthest corner of the room. Then another step.

Aziraphale's feathers fluttered, brushed Crowley's hands, closed around the angel like a shield.

_Fine. Let's take a step back._

* * *

** _Tadfield. Saturday evening._ **

Crowley had asked.

It had always been Crowley who asked. Aziraphale had never asked: he had always implied, tiptoeing around the questions and requests. Crowley had proposed the Arrangement; Aziraphale had mentioned that there was a miracle to perform in Edinburgh, or in Southwark, they could talk about it, and by the way had he tried the ale at the tavern over there? Crowley had told Aziraphale to get in the Bentley, now, they were going to Oxfordshire; Aziraphale had complained about the state of his coat, and Crowley had been _oh-so-kind_ and miracled the stain away.

Crowley had asked for the Holy Water. Aziraphale had made a scene for all of St. James's Park to see. Crowley had hated him for a grand total of ten minutes, then he had spent a century and five years wondering if that was exactly what the angel wanted: to be his enemy, not to be trusted, never to be part of his _“I'll destroy myself before they get me alive”_ plan. He had gotten his answer, eventually, with the most graceful and painful_ “thank you, I love you, please love me, but no thanks” _he had ever witnessed (graceful, as befitting an angel; painful, as befitting a demon: every word, every promise of a future outing, every glance, every line of that blessed tartan).

And Aziraphale had never asked to be saved.

Crowley was still wondering if that was because the angel trusted him to always come to the rescue at the eleventh hour, or because he trusted that Heaven would take care of their own. Or maybe that angelic meek demeanour was just a mask, and Aziraphale had never forgotten that he actually knew how to fight. While Crowley had bowed to Beelzebub and complained about a rude word, Aziraphale had straightened his bowtie and won a theology debate with an Archangel; and as for any pretence of bumbling clumsiness, it had crumbled the moment the angel had grasped the hilt of that flaming sword.

Anyway, Aziraphale had always seemed fond of talking but he had never asked; just as he hadn't accepted Crowley's proposal to stay at his place but had simply followed him all the way.

Said way had eventually ended on the floor, in that corner, but that was another matter.

_ One that has to be resolved before dawn_._ I can't lose you, angel. Not again._

* * *

**_Mayfair. Night._**

“Angel.”

The wings were shaking like leaves in a thunderstorm.

“Aziraphale.”

So much that Crowley was almost overwhelmed by their wind.

_Oh, for Go— Sat— Someone‘s sake. Might as well._

_ We don't have much time. Maybe not even tonight._

_ Here it goes._

He took off his sunglasses, folded them away in his pocket.

_ No more hiding, this is it._

“My love...?”

The wings closed a bit tighter, then they opened. Aziraphale folded them away. He looked straight in front of him, and his eyes got lost in Crowley's.

“My love,” he said. “My love. I know. Of course I know, my dear. My love. I'm an angel, my love. I can tell. A terrible angel, but I know.”


	2. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He was afraid of his side too._
> 
> Aziraphale has to face his past sins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you_ to my amazing beta [robynthemagpie!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)

** _Mayfair. Earlier._ **

He hadn't let go of Crowley's hand since he had sat next to him on the bus (not on the other side of a bench, not on his plush armchair while Crowley was slouching on the couch: next to Crowley, close enough for their legs to brush). He had followed the demon like a girl follows her first boyfriend to a long-awaited surprise birthday party, giddy with joy, and expectation, and relief.

And it was, in a way: his first love, and a celebration, and a new life; and maybe She always meant for it to happen; and maybe it was meant to be Good; and they were allowed to be safe and together, now that the world didn't end.

Get off the bus, miracle a lottery ticket for the driver, walk to the building, inside, the concierge doesn't see you, lift, corridor, a broken door (“don't worry, angel”), an open one, a bucket on the floor and a puddle.

Aziraphale had let go of the hand and pushed Crowley out of the way.

“Stay here.”

He had knelt down and checked every inch for the tiniest drop of Holy Water (that Holy Water — he had blessed it himself, there might've been a tear of his in that puddle — and now it was gone, dried away, no longer Holy except in a memory). He had miracled the bucket all the way to a dumpster in Luton.

He had seen his thermos on the desk, and he was on his way to take care of that too, when he'd glimpsed two dark wings out of the corner of his eye; he'd barely turned his head, and he'd seen the lectern.

_All the way here. It was a consecrated object — it must have hurt. His poor hands. Why._

_ Of course, _that_'s why._

_ After I put my Mother Shipton on its shelf, I put the bag just next to the bed — and all those times I've lain down just to look at it, just five minutes, and once again he was saving my books; once again he knew that this angel lives not on duty alone, but on this human miracle of words on paper too._

_ I wonder what else he kept._

_ I've been holding on to that oyster shell since Rome, rehearsing an explanation every day, I never knew when Sandalphon might've asked about it._

_ He went back for the lectern, then hid it in plain sight._

_ Good Lord, he must have been — he was._

_ He was afraid of his side too._

_ I was terrified — no, that's not an excuse._

_ We should've been afraid together._

The room was spinning.

_I should've known._

_ I saw the clothes, the fast car, the quips._

His knees could no longer hold him up.

_ I never noticed — I never looked._

_ I should've done something. Anything._

On the floor. In tears.

_A Principality tasked with protecting — and I was hiding in a bookshop. Calling him _foul fiend_, doubting everything he said, while he was in pain, and it was because of me._

Trying to escape the gaze of his own shame, as if that were possible.

And then Crowley had called him: and he had called him _“my love”_.

It had been the first time Crowley had said those words out loud. Aziraphale had felt them with his angelic powers, they had resonated in his very being for a long time. He had dared to give them a name one night in 1941; sometimes he had even whispered it to himself, and he had dreamed of replying in turn: “_my love_”.

Now the words were out in the open, and Aziraphale had grasped at them. They were something to be proud of, almost a balm to his shame. They were hope for a new future.

He had opened his wings, and he had come back to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Aziraphale and Crowley keeping mementoes that can be hidden from their side comes from [this post](https://monkey-on-nitrous-oxide.tumblr.com/post/188515362891/aethelflaedladyofmercia-commodorecliche) by [commodorecliche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche).
> 
> Yes, it hurts.


	3. Crowley and Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He takes the charred scrap of paper out of his pocket and hands it over to Aziraphale. Their fingers brush, which sends a shiver down his spine; he wonders if he's ever going to get used to the touch of that angel. He wonders if they'll have time enough to get used to anything._
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley are on their own side. It's a dangerous place to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you to my beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)!

** _Mayfair. Now._ **

“Drink that scotch.”

“Crowley. I know that I'm beyond...”

“Are you going to say that you're _beyond forgiveness_? Because I'm going to curse Her more in the next minute than I've ever done since the Fall. I swear it. Drink.”

The shadow of a smile crosses Aziraphale's face. Then it comes back, probably because Crowley's stare ordered it _to stay there, or else_.

They're sitting on the floor next to each other, their backs leaning against the wall; Crowley with his legs stretched out, while Aziraphale keeps his crossed as elegantly as possible.

Crowley had fetched the best bottle of booze in the flat (_even in this state, the angel will be a foodie, treat him_) and two glasses, both of which he’d proceeded to fill with a good measure of alcohol. He’d gulped down his at once, then poured himself another.

“Really, my dear, there's need to fuss over me.”

Crowley gives him a skeptical look.

“I’ve never seen you like _that_.”

“You weren't there after Sodom and Gomorrah,” mumbles Aziraphale.

“No, I wasn't.”

“I avoided you with the utmost care for the following century. I thought you would've _gloated_.” Aziraphale's voice sounds matter-of-fact, almost hollow. “_Look, the angel has realised that his side is just as cruel as ours._”

“Did you? Realise, I mean,” asks Crowley.

“Maybe. How much does it matter, considering that I managed to bury the thought deep enough to keep on devoting myself to the cause? Well, I suppose it does. It makes my position — my actions, I should say — much worse; I was not an involuntary accomplice, I was aware of what I was enabling, and I didn't say a word. I might've even complimented Sandalphon once or twice.”

“Now, listen—” begins Crowley; then he notices new tears in Aziraphale's eyes and adds, in the tone of an unnegotiable condition, “no, before that: dry your eyes, and drink that scotch.”

Aziraphale complies.

“Ok, angel. You got scared, and you were careful. You had every blessed right to be. You had a lot to lose — much more than me, and it's not like I've ever rebelled against my Head Office. Until this mess we're in, of course. Into which I dragged you—”

Aziraphale cuts him short.

“No, Crowley. We both knew the rules of the game:_ there's right, there's wrong, and if you do what's wrong—_” Aziraphale's voice is shaking, but he goes on to rehearse an old speech. “_If you do what's wrong when you're told to do right, you deserve to be punished_. I knew what I had been told, and _I_ chose not to do it. Because I didn't want to give up sushi restaurants, if I recall correctly; at least you were doing it to save humanity — and don't pretend otherwise, my dear, I've known you for six thousand years.”

Crowley tries to ignore Aziraphale's last words in the same spirit in which someone who's just seen his most embarrassing secret flashing on the Piccadilly Circus screens tries to discuss the weather.

“Do you think it was wrong?”

A simple question, asked in earnest.

“No, it was not wrong. But it was against what I was told to do. And I'm an angel, I can't disobey—”

“And that’s the problem— I mean, the real problem, in all of this—” Crowley makes a vague gesture with his hand. “You should've been _literally unable_ to disobey. And I shouldn’t have been able to tempt you into doing anything but the _wrong_ thing.”

Aziraphale considers the conundrum. His memory journeys back six thousand years of history, back all the way to the Garden, then to the Sixth Day, when She almost casually explained the new piece in Her Creation, those curious beings — _yes, they look like Me, and they can choose their own destiny, look after them. And by the way, Aziraphale _(She never called him Principality, just Aziraphale)_ keep an eye on that tree, here's a sword to fight Evil, I think you'll find a good use for it._

“What you're saying is that we've been displaying a measure of _free will_, not unlike humans. We made actual choices, that is, choices that have actual consequences. I don't know what to say.”

“_Ineffable_?” Crowley suggests. “And speaking of choices and consequences, there's Agnes Nutter's last prophecy.”

He takes the charred scrap of paper out of his pocket and hands it over to Aziraphale. Their fingers brush, which sends a shiver down his spine; he wonders if he's ever going to get used to the touch of that angel. He wonders if they'll have time enough to get used to anything.

“_Choofe your faces wisely,_” reads Aziraphale.

“_Playing with Fyre_,” goes on Crowley. “You're the expert of prophecies, angel, so correct me if I'm wrong, but this one doesn't sound good.”

“No, not good indeed.”

“What do you think it means?” asks Crowley.

“What do _you_ think?” echoes Aziraphale. “You seem to understand what's going on more than I do of late.”

“I think it means that everything's changed, after all. And I think it means that it's going to be dangerous. And I think it's no longer me, and it's no longer you either, it's _us_.”

“_Our own side._”

Crowley nods. He can't help thinking about a bandstand, of harsh words, of heartbreak. It feels like another world.

Well, they’ve seen _an_ end of the world, after all. Not the big Apocalypse-that-was-averted: their own personal Apocalypse, their own _revelation_ (how long since the last time he spoke Greek? But that word, he always remembered it; maybe because he was always asking questions, maybe because he was afraid of that one answer: why his heart skipped a beat and his wings seemed to tingle every time the angel was around, as if they wanted to greet that natural enemy: _you know that there are words for it, they were just on the tip of your tongue, stupid demon, let's think about the next bad deed and let the sleeping love lie_).

Aziraphale looks worried by Crowley's silence. But his voice isn't wavering anymore.

“If it's dangerous, I need to protect you,” he says.

“_We_ need to protect _each other_. It's_ us_,” Crowley reminds him._ “_And I know how we can do it.”

“Tell me.”


	4. Aziraphale and Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's strange. It's not like we haven't been in the same bed before. How many times (honestly, too many to count); and it's not like we haven't seen each other naked (when was the last time? 1860, the Turkish Bath near Marble Arch?)_
> 
> _He was so handsome, I remember thinking that he was. I was just trying to go back in time, to Rome — and there he was, sarcastic smile and outlandish glasses. I remember—_
> 
> A kiss takes him back to the here and now — a pull stronger than any memory: the world is real because it revolves around Crowley's lips, around those hands, those arms that are holding him — now they're even closer.
> 
> Another kiss — they're clumsy, both of them. Not much practice.
> 
> (None at all. It's not like they could've made love to anyone but each other.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I've written something this close to explicit. I wouldn't have made it through without my beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) and the people from the Good Omens Big Bang Discord (in particular: Janthony and TheOldAquarian).

**_Mayfair. Almost dawn._**

_It's strange. It's not like we haven't been in the same bed before. How many times (honestly, too many to count); and it's not like we haven't seen each other naked (when was the last time? 1860, the Turkish Bath near Marble Arch?)_

_He was so handsome, I remember thinking that he was. I was just trying to go back in time, to Rome — and there he was, sarcastic smile and outlandish glasses. I remember—_

A kiss takes him back to the here and now — a pull stronger than any memory: the world is real because it revolves around Crowley's lips, around those hands, those arms that are holding him — now they're even closer.

Another kiss — they're clumsy, both of them. Not much practice.

(None at all. It's not like they could've made love to anyone but each other.)

They share their clumsiness as they share the bed, as they're sharing their lips. Now the lips are parting and Aziraphale is tasting Crowley's mouth like a well-aged red wine — except that he's tasted so many wines over the centuries, but he's never tried anything like this.

He doesn't know what he's doing. But Crowley seems to know, and he follows.

_Oh Go— oh, Someone. Anyone. Whoever. I don't care. There's just _this, here, now_ — _this_ is happening. I've wondered about it, I hoped and I tried not to hope, and I kept on picturing in my mind every curl of his hair, every bat of his eyelids, the way he smiles when he's nervous; I imagined how he could take off that bowtie (I bet he didn't miracle it away, I thought), that waistcoat (he would undo every button, one by one, as if he had all the time in the world), his trousers (he'd take care to fold them)._

_ And this is nothing like it. He didn't miracle the bowtie away (loosed the knot, one swift movement), I waited through the eternity of every button, the belt had been set aside, carefully, and the trousers had been folded neatly on the chair. And yet it was nothing like I imagined._

_ I can't even remember pictured-Aziraphale. There's just real-Aziraphale._

Now, here.

Crowley's mouth was made for this.

It's like asking a question and finding out the answer: and the answer was that someone had to ask that question.

Aziraphale's hands are caressing Crowley's face, running down his shoulders, his arms — now finding his hands, their fingers intertwining; now one's on his chest, feeling each heartbeat as it's created. Crowley finds out who he is in that touch.

He's always wondered about everything, he's always tried to avoid _desiring_ anything. _Desire_ was his day job. He knew _desire_, he controlled its workings, he—

He doesn't.

But he was made for this — this desire, these lips, these hands; for their bodies might-as-well-be-one close.

_It was meant to be._

_ Or finally we chose it to be._

_ It is._

They move as one, not-breathing in unison in the union of their mouths.

They've been one since the Wall: the guardian who didn't see the intruder; the thief who struck up a conversation with the sentry. An odd match. A perfect one.

Crowley hesitates; he pulls away just enough to ask, _is it— _and he doesn't need to say more. Aziraphale nods and smiles; and then their mouths are one and the same again.

(The teeth of their smiles almost collided, but their lips saved them at the last second.)

_I've always been able to miracle myself an invitation to any party, a table at any restaurant: just wish, just imagine, there I was. This banquet — always dreamed of it, never dared to imagine it._

_ So sweet._

_ So much sweeter than‑_

Overwhelming_, that's the word._

Aziraphale's trembling, his teeth chattering.

Crowley holds him, his arms like a fortress, his body like an armour. He kisses the angel's forehead like a blessing. Aziraphale finds a home in those arms.

(Aziraphale's body is actually warmer than Crowley's reptilian one. It wouldn't be a bad idea to miracle a blanket, but they can't imagine anything but each other.)

It's hard to find a safe place when you're running from Heaven itself. Why should you hide from the Right Side? _You're an angel, do your duty, you will triumph, life will be better_, Aziraphale's told himself, over and over again.

But that _better life_ was made of perfect cruelty — _may She be praised that it didn't come to pass_. Crowley's _interesting life_ was the good choice, a soft and forgiving world. It's scary and messy (_where exactly are my legs? is this how—?_) but there's the comfort of those arms, the joy of giving yourself to be held — now the exhilaration of holding Crowley closer, as if they weren't already one.

_I hope I'm doing the right thing. He's everything, the angel — _my_ angel, Aziraphale, my love. This shy sybarite. Does he—_

_ Oh, not so shy. Fine._

_ Let's see._

_ Come here, angel._

“Would you mind—?” he asks.

“Oh, dear. Of course. So—”

“Yes. If you—”

“Oh, yes. Your bed, you lead.”

(Aziraphale might have winked.)

(_Does it mean that in _his_ bed, if we ever get to—? Wait, does he even _have_ a bed?_)

(“_You lead,” he said. So._)

“Tell me if—”

(Crowley whispers — he's trying his best, doing everything he can, looking dashing and always afraid he's messing it up, always afraid that they'll find out and they're coming to get him — you can never trust Hell — and now he has to take care of the angel too.)

“Dear, please, do—”

Crowley does.

Aziraphale's smile is nothing short of beatific — the light of a halo, blinding with softness: Crowley is basking in it, as the world revolves around the angel.

_How could they _write_ about this, the poets? How could they think, pause, count the syllables? _This_ is beyond measure. There are no words for _this_. There are words for the parts, for the mechanics, for the acts and the limbs; and yet there are no words— not really— _

_ No words._

_ There's _him_._

_ I love him._

_ He's—_

_ Oh._

“Are you—? Crowley—?”

_Oh, angel._

_ Six thousand years — and now _I know_, and I didn't even ask._

“Crowley—?”

“Well, yes, I— You—?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes as he sighs.

“Oh, _Good Lord_—”

Crowley smirks— bursts out laughing.

Catches his breath.

“Trust you to say something like that after _fucking like anything_, angel.”

Aziraphale gives him a coy look, settles back comfortably in his arms.

“Well, my dear, you know me.”

They hold each other close. Closer. In a kiss, they get lost in each other.

They come back — they're still one.

A look into those blue eyes — into those golden eyes; they don't need to say who's tidying up the bed and who's miracleing that blanket in which they wrap up.

They know each other, after all.


	5. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hellfire. You think that they will try to burn me at the stake.” His voice was strangely calm. “It makes sense. We've seen how Gabriel and Beelzebub aren't above discussing as peers; from that to active cooperation against what they surely perceive as a common nuisance there is but one small step. And, honestly, I deserve every flame—”
> 
> Crowley wanted to be gentle, to hold Aziraphale in his arms, reassure him that he had no faults, that those Archangels had told him that he was worse than them because he was much better than anyone in Heaven, that—
> 
> He was too angry. At the Archangelic Assholes, at himself and his own cowardice, at six millennia of obedience, at centuries of hiding, at years and years of silence.
> 
> The lapels of Aziraphale's jacket were in his fists; he had dragged the angel closer to him — so close that he could see only his eyes as he was shouting—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my ineffable beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)!

** _Mayfair. Before._ **

The idea that he had more in common with Aziraphale on this earth than with his superiors — or even his peers — in Hell hadn't come to Crowley as a sudden revelation. He couldn't exactly pinpoint the moment in which the seed of that idea had been sown. Maybe it had been that day in a tavern in Rome (_“let me tempt you— oh no, that's your job!” - a prim and proper hedonist, isn't that funny?_), or maybe that morning on a hill in Jerusalem (_“why did you show him all the kingdoms of the world?” — why didn't he presume that I was just tempting that good man?_); or maybe that evening after a play in Athens (_“‘nothing more wondrous than man,’ you had tears in your eyes too, Crowley, don't deny it—” “shut up, angel” — somehow, he couldn't lie to Aziraphale, why was that?_)

It didn't matter, really.

It'd just happened, and before he could consider the pros (_less work, more time to sleep_) and the cons (_Hastur, Ligur, and an eternity of torment_), he knew that he wasn't on Hell's side any more than his name was (_just the thought — retch_) _ Crawly_. He knew that his side was with Aziraphale (not that he'd ask Aziraphale to throw in his lot with a demon, not beyond the useful Arrangement); eventually, he knew that his side was with humanity. Those clever humans, with their short lives and their freedom — and how could they live so untethered by anything but each other?

_ Well, time to find out. _

“_When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre_,” he recited out loud. He sighed. “I think that _ fyre _ is—”

He couldn't bear the thought. Not enough to say it out loud.

Apparently, Aziraphale could.

“Hellfire. You think that they will try to burn me at the stake.” His voice was strangely calm. “It makes sense. We've seen how Gabriel and Beelzebub aren't above discussing as peers; from that to active cooperation against what they surely perceive as a common nuisance there is but one small step. And, honestly, I deserve every flame—”

Crowley wanted to be gentle, to hold Aziraphale in his arms, reassure him that he had no faults, that those Archangels had told him that he was worse than them because he was much better than anyone in Heaven, that—

He was too angry. At the Archangelic Assholes, at himself and his own cowardice, at six millennia of obedience, at centuries of hiding, at years and years of silence.

The lapels of Aziraphale's jacket were in his fists; he had dragged the angel closer to him — so close that he could see only his eyes as he was shouting—

“Shut up. _ Shut-up-shut-up-shut-up_. You _ stupid _—”

Aziraphale's blank stare froze him. He let go of the angel, who stumbled back 

_ I'm just like them. Telling him to shut up. _

“I'm sorry,” he said, suddenly ashamed, if not downright meek. “It's just that— you don't deserve any of this shit. No more than the humans deserved the Apocalypse.”

“I aligned with them for too long. It's fitting that I'd be sentenced as a deserter.” 

“Do you _ want _ to be destroyed?” _ Please say no. _

Aziraphale sighed. 

“No.”

_ Thank— Whoever. Thank the World. _

“Do you want to hear my plan?”

“Yes.”

Crowley tried to act as if he had everything under control. (_ My plan has more holes than all the cheese in Switzerland _.)

“They're going to try to sentence you to extinction by Hellfire.” His voice trembled. (_ Fuck. _ ) “I am immune to Hellfire. We _ choose your face wisely _. I take your place.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“They're going to sentence you to extinction by Holy Water.” His voice was calm. “I am immune to Holy Water, therefore I take your place; as per Agnes' prophecy, we choose _ our _ faces wisely. When do you want to do it?”

_ Aziraphale in Hell. _ No. The very concept was repulsive.

“When do you want to do it?” repeated Aziraphale.

“Never.”

“My dear, we have to.”

Crowley sighed. _ He’s right. _ Our _ side, _ our _ faces. It’s no longer me, no longer you, it’s the two of us. _

“I know.”

With the most casual tone, Aziraphale said, “I hope you realise that I'm just as terrified as you are. We have to share this fear too, I suppose.”

“I'm not—”

“Of course you are. You're not stupid, you know the risks. And you love me, you don't want to see me in danger any more than I want to see you in the hands of Gabriel, my love.”

_ You love me. My love. _

Crowley’s instinct was to act on those words. To turn and kiss the angel — _ we might die together, and we’ve never even kissed _ — to find out what his lips felt like (_I bet they’re soft, and sweet too_), to hold him in his arms as if they were one.

_ No, now we have no time for that. We have to survive. _

It was then that Aziraphale kissed him.

Crowley's brain stopped working. He almost didn't understand what Aziraphale was whispering.

He was whispering “I think we have a few hours.”

Then he was in the angel's arms, and the angel was in his.

Then they were in the bedroom — a miracle, probably, whose he couldn’t tell — he didn't remember getting there, just Aziraphale's lips.

They were sweet, and soft.

_ Spent my life tempting people. I fall in love with an angel — and he can make me do anything. Someone's got a sense of humour. _

* * *

** _Mayfair. After._ **

“You say that I should _ saunter _ , dear, but how can one even _ walk _ in these—?”

“_With style_, angel. Shift the weight. Now, how can you actually move in this suit of armour?”

“A _ proper _ suit is the mark of a _ proper gentleman _—”

“I was more comfortable in that Black Knight contraption, for Sat—”

Aziraphale flinches, closes his eyes. He seems unable to open them, then he's batting his eyelids more than Crowley's body has done in the past century. He wrings his hands.

Crowley tries to stay calm, or at least to act like he is.

“_For God's _ sake,” he says. “There — I can even say it without feeling that bad taste,” he adds, sounding like a schoolboy who's completed a very boring homework.

Aziraphale sighs.

“It's not enough.” he complains. “You're _ glaring_. You look _ shameless_. Be _ humble_. If we're facing a trial, we need to make our case heard, and a confrontational attitude is less likely to sway a jury—”

“Do you really think that they will give us _ a trial_?” shouts Crowley. “When was the last time that Gabriel listened to anyone but himself? And what do you think that Beelzebub is going to—”

He immediately regrets saying it. Thinking about it.

He tries to lull himself into a security he doesn't feel with lies he doesn't believe. _ Maybe they won't even go for him. _ Playing with fyre. _ That was only about Hellfire. They're going to take me, and whatever — it's not going to be worse than the Fall. As long as he's safe— _

“I'm sorry,” he says. His voice is soft, almost desperate. He cannot bear to look at his angel — he'd imagine him dragged to the torments of Hell—

“Yes! Like that!” Aziraphale's voice is resounding, suddenly triumphant. He's beaming. “Apologise like you mean it. Now, as for your gait: my clothes might feel slightly uncomfortable,” — he rolls his eyes — “but they will keep you from— _ sauntering _, as you say; just watch your hands: keep them behind your back, it will help you stand up straight. Try it.”

“I meant to apologise _ to you_.”

Aziraphale stares at him as if his words don’t make any sense.

“I cannot fathom what could possibly prompt your apologies in this matter — after all, it’s _your_ insight that is about to save us. Now, let's try it again: apologise, be— shy? Would you say that I look _ shy_? — anyway, let's work on your expression. Then I'll work on my _ sauntering_, I promise.”

Crowley’s slightly overwhelmed by the angel’s sudden enthusiasm — no, that’s downright _ courage_. _ He could take on Heaven and Hell by himself, and somehow he knows it. So much for humble and shy. _

“First I need a stiff drink.”

“Fine. I'll have a cup of tea, please. And I believe you also should abstain from—”

Crowley can't help himself. Everything's too much.

“_Now _ you talk about _ abstinence_.”

Aziraphale doesn't even blush. He smiles, dreamily.

“Oh, dear. Just wait for my reply once we get out of this pickle,” he sighs.

Crowley stares at him. He realises that he's never seen himself so _ actually _ confident. Or positively _ naughty_, for that matter.

“Be right back,” he mutters.

He returns two minutes later, carrying two mugs of tea. (He knows exactly how Aziraphale takes his tea: _ just a tad of milk, no sugar, please, thank-you-my-dear_. Crowley can make that tea — well, miracle it — as if he'd been created with that knowledge. And somehow, that knowledge is something more intimate than anything they've done last night.)

He’s on the doorstep when he sees Aziraphale.

Aziraphale's kneeling next to the bed, his head bowed to touch his folded hands, his eyes closed, his voice little more than a whisper.

Crowley freezes.

He's watched the angel take off his clothes, one by one, carefully, the human way; and he's seen how the angel looked at him when he let his jacket fall on the floor (he almost slipped over it), threw his scarf on the nearest chair (he missed), managed to get out of his jeans (he didn't use his powers — probably: everything was a bit of a blur after Aziraphale had taken off his bowtie).

He's tried to commit to his memory every inch of Aziraphale's body (_if I were to lose this fight, if I were to be destroyed, I'll fall asleep dreaming of that vision_) — the way he bats his eyelids when he's nervous and the way he slowly closes his eyes when he's losing himself in pleasure (_I hope it was pleasurable for him, well, he looked a bit like he does when he's eating, so I guess_), the smell that's behind the perfume of his cologne (_I liked the old one better_), his plump belly and his strong arms (_I should've known, he moves around those crates of books without miracles_).

He's never seen Aziraphale so naked. 

He theoretically knew that the angel prayed. Part of the job description. Whenever he thought about it (_I almost miss Heaven, being with Her — well, at least I’ve got him_), he was grateful for the consideration that Aziraphale had showed him by not doing it in front of him. It would've been one more reminder of their respective positions after his Fall ‑ maybe one too many.

And now it's his own body that's down on his knees — his hands that are folded, his head that's bowed. It's his mouth that's praying.

“Mother,” he's saying. “Protect us. Bless our union.”

Crowley takes a step back, but he's not fully used to the proportions of Aziraphale's body. He bumps into the doorframe. Aziraphale-in-his-body saves the mugs with a miracle and a smile. 

_ Is it going to be like this, if we make it through it all? A demon who prepares breakfast so his angel has time to say his prayers — and everything’s so _ normal_, we just do it, we smile and we know what the other thinks, we worry only about spilling the tea? _

“Now let's see if I can _ saunter_,” says Aziraphale.

He can't, not really. And Crowley has to remember to smile.

But it's morning, and they'll have to make do.

As Crowley leaves his house and his body in Aziraphale's hands, they kiss (_could I ever get used to it? _ — they both think it, they know they do, they smile and kiss again — _ I could, and yet it would be a first time every time_). They check the plan (_12:30 in St. James's Park, unless— unless something happens, then it's the bench in Berkeley Square as soon as we’re back_), they try to calm the other's fears by looking in their eyes (_I know, me too _ — they don't say it, they already know it), they kiss again (_be brave, my love, I will be brave because you are_).

As he's leaving the building, Crowley thinks, _ We look like an old married couple. _

_ Maybe we’ve always been, we just didn't know it yet. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The play that Aziraphale and Crowley went to see in Athens is Sophocles' Antigone: _“Many are the wonders, but nothing more wondrous than man.”_
> 
> This chapter owes a lot to [Give Them Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197555) by [Aethelflaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelflaed/pseuds/Aethelflaed) and to Chapter 16 of [Long Is The Way, And Hard](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345675) by [Kate_Lear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kate_Lear/pseuds/Kate_Lear). 
> 
> Don't be shy, make me smile, leave a comment!


	6. Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alone in Crowley's flat, Aziraphale thinks about what happened — and what it might happen. And about the plants too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, an immense thank you to my beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes).

** _Mayfair. Morning._ **

For a split second, Aziraphale searches for his fob watch. _ No — on his wrist. _ Your _ wrist now. _

_ Mine. His. Ours. Our side. _

He smiles a blissful smile. Beatific, almost.

_ So, that happened too. Was I the one who — as they say — took the initiative? Well, Crowley didn't seem to mind, and that's the only thing one should be concerned with, at least in this matter. Of course he felt like he should be the one in control, the dear boy. He was so scared — for my wellbeing, of all things. _

_ And I had done him so wrong, for such a long time. And yet— _

_ More forgiving, more patient than an angel. How— Ineffable, I suppose. _

_ Oh, Crowley. Everything's gone quite topsy-turvy in just a few days, hasn't it? But it's probably for the best. _

_ And as for our — _ union _ ? Would that be an acceptable term? _

He stops in his tracks. Not that he's blushing (well, maybe, just the tip of his ears), as love's nothing to blush for — even when everything was so _ intense _, not to mention unexpected—

_ Reasoning of love has to wait, for now. _ Acting_, that's what this morning's about. Acting on love: which is more than just pleasantly sharing a— _

_ Oh, well. Let's not be coy. Let's be honest, as it befits Crowley's dignity. We made love, _ had sex_, as humans are wont to do; and if we also shared our knowing each other in our spirit as angels (fallen, not fallen, such silly labels, now I truly realise it now) it was our bond with this world — this immanent, human, lovely world — that made it worth the effort. _

_ So, there you have it. Now, onwards to battle — we have something to fight for, a responsibility to our love; and a plan of action as well. _

Aziraphale checks the watch (_Crowley's, his: theirs_). Half past ten. He just had a cup of tea: a proper breakfast would be a good idea, both to calm his nerves and to pass the time. _ Looking for a place in the area— no, that's too risky. It would be _ out of character _ for Crowley _.

On his way to the kitchen, he stops to admire the plants. So lush and verdant. He caresses one leaf (_you don't mind, do you? or are you just Crowley's? I will treat you as well as he does, love you as my love's plants deserve_); the garden trembles, as if it were terrified.

_ Oh, really. Crowley, you don't. You’re missing the Garden, of course. You’re angry with Her. But taking it out on these beautiful— Well, this will have to change. _

He winks to a peace lily. Its leaves stops shaking. He smiles, complicitly. A bloom.

_ Crowley's going to see— _

If_ we survive. _

_ Lord, Mother, I pray you. I beg you. Should anything happen — not to him. To me, if that's what it takes. Not to him. Your Plan is Ineffable, don't let it be cruel. Not again. It's such a small thing for You. _

He sighs. He can't help trusting Her. He'll always be an angel.

_ In the meanwhile, we'll do our best in this world. _

He goes through the pantry and the fridge. There's bread, butter, eggs, Marmite (_“that's one of mine,” Crowley had told him; “people are always fighting over whether it's delicious or nasty.” He'd somehow forgotten to tell him that he'd ended up entangled in a few of those fights_).

Aziraphale's culinary skills are not much to be reckoned with, but his eggs and soldiers are more than decent, and cooking almost takes his mind off what's ahead, once he crosses the threshold of the flat.

_ Crowley's flat, his own flat — their side's flat. _

Noon. He sighs. Time to go.

He locks the door on his way out. _ Better safe than sorry_, he thinks_. For want of a nail, and so on_.

Outside the building, the Bentley's waiting. It's perfect (he's always acted as if he didn't like that car, but he loved it — it was a part of Crowley, what was there not to love?) Aziraphale wonders how hard it was for his demon just to look at it and not jump into it, drive to Soho at 90 miles per hour.

_ We will make it through it. A world where an Antichrist remembers such tiny details, a car that means something only for a demon he just met. A world so full of love. _

He hails a taxi, avoids chit-chatting with the driver, for once (_Crowley wouldn't do it_), tips generously.

St. James's Park.


	7. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley’s lost count of how many times he’s crossed this threshold. 
> 
> The first time he had put up some shelves — Aziraphale, almost breathless, always batting his eyelids, _oh, Crowley, a letter’s just arrived, the books will be here in an hour!_
> 
> The last time, everything was ablaze. The shelves, the books, the air leaving his lungs as he was screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to my beta [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes) for her suggestions, corrections, and support!

** _Soho. Morning._ **

Crowley’s lost count of how many times he’s crossed this threshold. 

The first time he had put up some shelves — Aziraphale, almost breathless, always batting his eyelids,  _ oh, Crowley, a letter’s just arrived, the books will be here in an hour! _

The last time, everything was ablaze. The shelves, the books, the air leaving his lungs as he was screaming.

And now there’s this new one. A new life, a new chance — a new bookshop. 

The shelves are back, in perfect order.

The mess of too many books ( _ too many books? That’s not possible, my dear! _ ) in too little space ( _ I might have used a little miracle here and there _ ) is perfect as well. Crowley can see Aziraphale in every pile of volumes under the table. He sees two hundred years of Aziraphale slowly building this home — more home to him than the Mayfair flat’s ever been home to Crowley; and then there are two hundred years of his own loitering amongst the shelves, getting drunk on the sofa, discussing all of creation and nothing in particular, and on that night — tempting his angel into saving the world. 

The world — which had been saved despite their incompetence, or maybe thanks to that. But it had been saved. The world — and the bookshop. 

The old Bibles and the prophecy books are in the back room ( _ Actual-Antichrist must’ve eavesdropped the discussion between Aziraphale and Book-Girl _ ); the Wilde first editions are in their old place, still signed ( _ “some of those books were gifts from an old friend,” the angel had sighed — did this small act of kindness take much of a toll on the boy’s powers? _ ) 

And then there are all these new books — adventure books, for children. 

_ I wonder what they’re like. Which stories are in there. _

Crowley has always pretended not to be interested in books, but that’s always had more to do with leaving the angel his own space than with a lack of passion for reading.  _ This shop is his little Earthly Heaven — one day he’ll realise that it has more power than all the Angelic Hosts _ . He had used that power in four words —  _ no more old bookshops! _ — and the angel had started to fall in earnest into that ultimate temptation, averting the Apocalypse.

And Crowley has always  _ loved _ stories: yet another human invention to comfort each other. He loves stories as much as he loves human beings: always creative, always imperfect, always creative because they’re imperfect; and, as usual, people blame Heaven and give thanks to Hell for them, despite the fact that neither Archangels nor Dukes of Hell could even imagine anything like it.  _ But an 11-year-old boy can, and overflowing with such an abundance of details. _ The Antichrist bit had allowed Adam to turn his fantasies into ink and paper in the span of a night; but the blueprint was all human. 

_ Imagination, that ineffable bit that  _ they _ have and  _ we  _ don’t— _

_ That we _ weren’t meant  _ to have. I hope we’re an exception. _

_ If the plan we imagined tonight doesn’t work— _

_ And it’s not like everything  _ they _ imagine works. Ineffability, it cuts both ways, as usual.  _

He checks all the shelves again. Everything’s there. 

_ I can’t wait to see Aziraphale’s face when— _

_ We’re going to make it. _

_ I wonder if the angel’s praying for our success right now. Probably. _

Crowley smiles. 

Aziraphale kneeling next to their bed this morning. What happened in that bed last night. Their discussion of what had happened over breakfast —  _ I’m always impressed, my dear (are you eating the toast? No? Do you mind if I have it?), well, I’m impressed, I was saying, by how much human beings have a gift for pleasant experiences, especially when they’re meant to be shared with each other, although on one’s own — or so I’ve been told, I don’t know, my love, my experience of human activities so far, as you well know, has been limited to books and dinners and theatre — mostly.. _ . 

Crowley has no words to say how much he loves his angel.

He tries to be practical. To tell himself things that can be put into words, words that leave no space for doubt.

_ We’re going to make it. We’re going to have so many mornings, so many nights.  _

_ Of course we’re going to make it. _

_ Just imagine it, Crowley. Be calm.  _

_ It’s going to be like riding a Bentley in flames. _

_ Follow the plan. It’s going to work.  _

He needs to get used to this body. It must be perfect.

_ Everything will go according to our plan. _

He thinks of hailing a cab. 

He walks all the way to St. James’s Park.


	8. DEATH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SOMEONE is waiting to do his job at St. James's Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, an immense THANK YOU to my beta robynthemagpie_writes for her support!

** _St. James’s Park. Sunday, 12:30am._ **

I was waiting. 

I’m always waiting. 

This time I was waiting for two angels. It doesn’t happen often. It happens.

Their former sides would take them, extinguish them. That was the job.

I don’t judge. It’s not my job. 

But I observe — that I do. 

I saw that the angels had exchanged their bodies. 

I didn’t expect that. Nobody did. 

It was creative. Ineffable. 

I left. They were no longer a job for me, and I have so much work to do. 

But it was nice seeing them again, after the whole Apocalypse business. They were together — really together.

It’s a good thing, being together. People who are alone end up taking care only of themselves, or of the World As It Should Be. 

They were taking care of each other, and one should never forget to do that.


	9. Aziraphale to Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How could you bear it? Six thousand years. The heat of the crowds was suffocating, and everything was so cold. It was always too late to do something that mattered, and it wasn’t over yet, not ever._
> 
> _I was surrounded, and I would’ve been utterly alone — if it hadn’t been for you._
> 
> _I hung on to your body. I tried to be you — and you wouldn’t have been terrified, would you? You would’ve been dashing. So I tried to be dashing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robynthemagpie keeps on being the loveliest beta ever. Thank you, Robyn!

** _Berkeley Square. Waiting._ **

How could you bear it? Six thousand years. The heat of the crowds was suffocating, and everything was so cold. It was always too late to do something that mattered, and it wasn’t over yet, not ever. 

I was surrounded, and I would’ve been utterly alone — if it hadn’t been for you. 

I hung on to your body. I tried to be you — and you wouldn’t have been terrified, would you? You would’ve been _ dashing_. So I tried to be dashing. 

You were right, your clothes helped. The glasses helped to hide the fear. 

(Maybe you would’ve been afraid. Maybe you’ve always been more afraid than I’ve ever imagined.)

How could you bear that place for so long? How could you bear being so far removed from Her Grace, forever? It’s no wonder that you loved this Earth. It’s no wonder that you found Grace in humanity. 

(She made them, and She made them in Her Image, after all.)

(But I understand if you don’t want to talk about Her. How She can allow that place — even my faith wavers.)

But most of all, how could you bear _ me_, my words, my doubts, my contempt, all this time? I made your life Hell — I told you you belonged there, over and over again, and I didn’t even know the place; I refused to see that we belonged together, and I’ve known you since the Beginning. 

(But now we’ll be together, on this Earth. You’ll never have to be afraid. I’ll protect you. Just allow me to protect you.)

(Come back soon, my love.)

It wasn’t easy, being you. You’ve never hesitated when it comes to entering the lions’ den. That night in the church, you didn’t flinch. You joked, even. And you took care of my life and of my books. 

(I’ll take care of you too, now.)

(I can’t wait, my love. As soon as you come back.)

It wasn’t easy, being you — yet it felt natural, in a way. I’ve seen you, last night. It was when you blushed — then I knew we had a chance. I knew you weren’t perfect. I already knew I wasn’t perfect — I’ve always been a terrible angel, they were right about that.

But with you, I knew that there was no need to be perfect, just to be good enough. You’ve always been good enough — and creative, and dashing.

So that’s what I tried to be.

I started small. I thought about the coffee table in your flat, about your plants.

(We’ll have a chat about those plants. Maybe not as soon as you’re back, but eventually we will.)

(Where are you? Come back, my love.)

I was terrified of being tortured in Hell’s deepest pit. I tried to be nonchalant. Said it out loud. My voice didn’t break — I thanked the Lord. For a second, She felt less distant. 

(Just the thought of you could bring Her Grace to Hell itself — you’re a better angel than I’ve ever been.)

When Michael arrived with the Holy Water — my heart sank, even as I knew that our plan was working. That was the only pain: facing my failure, even in our victory.

(You were worrying so much about what they would do to me, but I can take a couple of punches and half of a kicking as well as the next angel, my dear, and it’s not like Hastur is much stronger than Sandalphon. I’ll miracle the bruises away as soon as I return you this body.)

(Which will be soon.)

_ (Lord, I trust you.) _

But I tried to be you. 

I don’t know if you would’ve asked to take off your clothes. I don’t know if I did it because I — well, because I like your body, and if I were you I’d flaunt it even more than you do.

(That outfit you wore in 1793. I could’ve watched you lounging there for a century. And I think you knew it. I made a fool of myself that day.)

(At least this time I broke you out of jail too.)

(They've let you go by now, haven’t they? You’re on your way. I know it. You must be on your way.)

_ (Lord, protect him.) _

As soon as I touched the water, I was back with you in St. James’s Park. Our spot, our bench, our little routine with the ducks.

(We’re going to build so many little routines, now.)

(Just come back.)

_ (Please, Lord.) _

I asked for a rubber duck. I hope it was outlandish enough. 

Then Michael came back. I took my little revenge. Not very angelic, I know. Maybe I should regret it. I can’t help laughing about it.

_ (Is this why you’re not returning him to me, Lord? I will stop laughing. I’ll kneel and beg for forgiveness. Just keep him safe. Please, return him to me, Lord. Please. I can’t bear one moment longer away from him, from my love.) _

_ (No, it’s not what I did in Hell. I don’t deserve him because of what I did to him. I insulted him. I lied to him. I doubted him — for centuries. But if you want to take him away, Lord, please, not like this. Let me know that he’s safe. It’s a small thing for You, it’s the World for me...) _

(What...?)

“Angel, I’m here. Hey, no need to be startled. Sorry. Gabriel wanted all the release forms in triplicate. How could you take orders from that prick for six thousand years without punching him in the face even once — I’ve always known you were tough, but I didn’t imagine...”


	10. Crowley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well, I don’t know much about forgiveness. I’m a demon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A round of applause for my beta [robynthemagpie!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes)

** _A room at the Ritz. After a high tea._ **

Ok, you said your bit. 

You’ve treated me unfairly. You insulted me. You lied to me. You doubted me — for centuries.

You did it. Now you admit it. And now you say, “please, forgive me.” You even add, “I know I don’t deserve it.”

Well, I don’t know much about forgiveness. I’m a demon.

_ (You just nod. You used to flinch when I said that I was a demon. You’d find excuses that I didn’t ask for. You’d give me absolutions that weren’t yours to give. You’d say that I was an angel, after all. Now you’re not looking away, you’re not saying a thing, you’re just nodding as if it were okay to be a demon.) _

_ (Do you mean it’s okay to be a demon?) _

But here’s what I know: 

  1. I always wanted to be at your side. Since you blurted out that you gave away your sword — you beautiful, sweetest and most annoying, most stupid and most clever being I’ve ever met.

_(I love you.)_

  2. You’re a mess. You’ve always been a mess. 

_(I love every bit of this mess that is you. Did you get the message already, angel?)_

  3. I’m a mess too. I don’t think I’ll ever be otherwise. 

_(I don’t know how you can love me. You should’ve seen me, Upstairs. I made a joke about making a phone call, I don’t know how they didn’t see it wasn’t you. I stared at Gabriel, when you told me not to do it.)_

  4. I’ve always wanted to be at your side. I want to fall asleep and wake up in _our_ bed (I won’t ask you to sleep). I want to share every meal with you (I hope you don’t mind if I’ll mostly watch you eating). I want to have sex with you, that too (that is, if you enjoyed— _oh, good, I was worried, you know?_) 

_(I love you. I’m saying it twice, in case the message didn’t get through the first time.)_

So I forgive you. And you deserve it — or nobody does. 

It’s not like you’re a plant. 

_ (What did you want to tell me about my garden? Ok, if you say that it can wait, it can wait.) _

But now — forgiving you is not the point. Not really.

The point is — well, the point is—

_ (Oh, I almost forgot to say it: you’re the bravest being I’ve ever known. You spent millennia with those pathetic excuses of Archangels treating you like — like that, I couldn’t imagine before seeing it with my own eyes — and you still kept your dignity.  _

_ You literally went to Hell for me.  _

_ But I’d love you and I’d want to be with you even if you hadn’t done it. You didn’t have to go to Hell for me to forgive you. You just had to be you — it’s that simple.  _

_ Of course, being you, you couldn’t have done anything but going to Hell for me, because that’s who you are, what you do when push comes to shove: you look out for me.  _

_ So maybe it’s not so simple. It’s a bugger. A conundrum, you’d call it.) _

But, well, the point here is not a philosophical question.

It’s a question, though. But the answer should be simple. 

_ (I’m still afraid to ask, yes.) _

Will you marry me?

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: a wedding, of course...


	11. Aziraphale-Crowley and Crowley-Aziraphale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are people who always cry at weddings._
> 
> And here's a wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the most supportive of betas, [robynthemagpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robynthemagpie_writes/pseuds/robynthemagpie_writes). Merry Christmas, and thank you for your words.

** _A cottage in the South Downs. One year later._ **

There are people who always cry at weddings. 

Aziraphale is one of them. He’s found a way to be discreet, even dignified, while dabbing his eyes with a surreptitiously miracled handkerchief. He knows how to not-breathe to avoid sniffing. Still, he always cried.

He’s seen all sorts of nuptials: elopements  _ (will their love be worth the risk?) _ and arranged marriages  _ (will they find something to share beyond duty?) _ ; lavish ceremonies that lasted three days in a manor  _ (the food was terrible) _ and licences signed in five minutes in a registry office  _ (I know you’re in a hurry, but that’s not an excuse not to be polite to the civil servant) _ ; and people waking up one morning and laughing at the realisation that their one-night-stand has lasted ten years, and it will go on until death did them part.

He couldn’t put his finger on the reason why weddings moved him so much. 

Until Crowley proposed, that is. 

As he was saying  _ yes _ , Aziraphale realised that he would’ve doubted God Herself before doubting his answer to Crowley. He’d spent six millennia telling himself that he was fighting for the right side against the wrong one, and he suddenly had found out that he was meant to be on yet another side; and then he’d realised that he’d always been looking for that side just like someone who suddenly realises that they’d had an eternal headache only when it’s gone.

(Aziraphale will never doubt God, nor Her Plan. He’s an angel. Heaven’s Head Office might’ve given him an early retirement, but it doesn’t change who he is — it just allows him not to hide it.)

As soon as he accepted Crowley’s proposal, everything seemed to fall into its right place — and Aziraphale’s was clearly somewhere in his demon’s arms. 

(That afternoon, his demon’s arms were in a very comfortable bed in a very large suite at the Ritz, where stretching their wings was much easier than finding where his waistcoat and Crowley’s shirt had ended up after they’d experimented different and very pleasant ways to be very close to each other — it’d been all very nice, but eventually they felt like taking a stroll in the park, and  _ honestly, dear, I have  _ standards _ , wearing this coat and just a shirt — what’s so funny? Oh, really,  _ “taking your revenge for coming all the way to Paris” _ ? No, I wasn’t  _ exactly _ daydreaming of being a  _ damsel in distress _ , and even if— it’s not like I expected you to— oh, well, if you put it this way— _ ) (It had been an absolutely lovely afternoon, followed by a surprisingly lovely evening and an incredibly lovely night.)

They’d planned a small ceremony. At first, the witnesses were a problem — as immortal beings, they tended to keep only loose ties with human beings. But when Aziraphale had decided to go to Tadfield and check if Adam was doing well despite everything that had happened (last but not least being almost-shot by a discorporated angel possessing a soon-to-be-former-painted-Jezebel-and-medium), and after a long and detailed apology, they’d found out that being touched by an Almost-Apocalypse can create a peculiar sense of community. Anathema, Pepper and Crowley had gotten on like a house on fire, and “Ms Device’s distant uncle Aziraphale” had  _ absolutely charmed _ Mrs. Young. 

_ So, we get downstairs together. Bentley (ask Crowley to drive within speed limits, for Mrs. Young’s sake). Registry (don’t ask Crowley how he managed to get a birth certificate). Bentley. Refreshments in the garden. Dance (remind Crowley that Heaven still has the best choreographers, my dear). _

There’s a knock on the door.

\----

** _The same cottage, another room. Meanwhile._ **

It takes a lot of effort to look effortless. 

The first rule is: never ask for anything.

Crowley knows it very well. As someone in the business of temptation, he’s proud to be a virtuoso of implying and nudging and plausible deniability. 

(Well, now he’s retired. But he’s still Crowley. He’s thoroughly enjoyed snatching that Vera Wang gown under the nose of a Bridezilla — he gives her friendship with the maid of honour a 50% chance of survival.)

He’s never been one for openly asking. Questioning everything, always. But never asking.

Except with Aziraphale, that is.

With Aziraphale, he hadn’t been above begging.  _ Just let me give you a lift, are you sure, I can take you anywhere you want to go, if you’re saying that tonight’s going too fast I can wait, whenever you want, angel. _

And Aziraphale had spent centuries trying not to answer. Trying to chat a bit and say as little as possible, actually. Until he had mentioned that a table for two at the Ritz had miraculously come free, and then there was a room booked under the name Fell, and  _ before— choosing to do anything— there’s something I need to say, my dear, it’s quite serious but I believe that it’s necessary _ . 

Aziraphale had said a lot. Crowley hadn’t questioned his good faith.

Crowley had asked a question. Aziraphale had answered.

Every time he thinks about it (and he thinks about it every day), Crowley’s painfully aware that his marriage proposal was not a masterclass in being suave. It was a mash-up of trying to put his foot down (as if), theological musings, and unabashed swooning. 

But Aziraphale had said  _ yes _ . That’s all that matters.

Aziraphale had said  _ yes _ a lot. In that room, and in the days that followed. Crowley sometimes wonders if the angel’s trying to make amends, or he simply trusts his fiancé without any doubt.

(He didn’t exactly say  _ yes _ to everything. There’s an ongoing debate about speed limits and the Bentley. And about Crowley’s gardening techniques. Come to think of it, Aziraphale’s tendency to say  _ yes _ hasn’t made him a doormat any more than his batting eyelids. He’s still Aziraphale, after all.)

Crowley adjusts his tie. 

(He feels like wearing suits these days, and the returned Vera Wang gown fits perfectly to Bridezilla’s best frenemy. He’s still a demon, after all.)

He knocks on Aziraphale’s door.

\----

** _The threshold of the cottage. Almost dawn._ **

The guests have left, eventually.

Mr Aziraphale-Crowley and Mr Crowley-Fell have kissed (then blushed, and when Wesleydale had asked whether demons can  _ actually _ blush, they’ve both blushed a bit more), they’ve danced (worse than anyone in the garden with the possible exception of Mr Shadwell-Potts), they’ve shared their food with their human friends (as if guided by some ineffable plan, or just out of curiosity,  _ their side _ is slowly becoming much more than just the two of them).

Once the last car has left, Crowley feels like he can safely smile without looking any less cool (his dancing had taken care of any pretence of coolness, but only Pepper will tell him that, five years later).

“Well, my dear,” says Aziraphale. “I believe that it’s customary—” and before Crowley can make a move, the former Angel of the Eastern Gate sweeps the former Serpent of Eden off his feet.

Literally.

The former Serpent of Eden giggles. 

(Definitely not cool. Definitely—  _ who cares _ .)

(Definitely wonderful. Definitely—  _ I’ll do it again, my dear, and soon. _ )

As he’s carrying Crowley through the door, Aziraphale realises that, for the first time, he hasn’t shed a tear at a wedding. He’s been smiling in bliss at his husband. 

Angels are supposed to believe in God and Her Plan, and rejoice in her Divine Grace and Love — and nothing more.

But it’s not a problem if Aziraphale believes and rejoices in many other things. 

For instance, he believes that allowing a demon to save him was the most angelic thing he’s ever done. He believes that saving a demon’s life was the second most angelic thing he’s ever done. 

And he believes that he’ll keep on smiling at his husband as long as an angel can live. 


End file.
